Confessions of a Victim

And suddenly, he remembered. He remembered being in severe pain, panic filling the hospital, cops coming and going, shouting, screaming, his mother crying. Blood, blood, blood everywhere! "I was in hospital," Brody said. "I remember. But I don’t remember being discharged or anything."

"You weren't, Brody. We had to speak to you, to understand what had happened. I need to speak with you."

Brody looked fearful, confused. "I…I don’t…understand." That fear was coming back now, the fear of the cold, dark four walls closing in on him. Had he been drugged? 'The coffee!' he realized, and threw the rest of it against the wall at the side, the plastic cup lightly clattering to the ground. "Where in the hell am I?!" he screamed.

"Hush now, no need to get erratic. I'm sorry, Brody, if these questions are troubling you. It's just…well, I feel for you, Brody. I have a boy around your age, and I would hate for him to go through such horrible things that you've gone through. Would you like to see a picture of my boy?" Officer Judy pulled out her wallet, took out a photo, and slid it over to Brody.

When he--in his panicked state--looked down at the photo, it was a photo of Officer Judy wearing casual clothes, smiling with her arm around her son…"The hell?!" he whimpered. He saw the boy in the photo; red haired, chubby, greasy skin and covered with acne. "Patrick?!"

"It is such a troubling thing to lose a son, you know," said Judy, standing up, seizing the photo, and placing it back in her wallet. "I'm sure your own mother will miss you dearly. If only she knew what a nasty piece of shit you really are. But you don’t have a mother, do you, Brody? Just a drunken dad who likes drinking and beating you."





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